


The Ill-Made King

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (Brief) heterosexual sex, (Very brief), Accidental Voyeurism, Blindfolds, F/M, Lovesick Lancelot, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Oral Sex, Pining Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself."</p>
<p>What other choice did Arthur have when, one night, he stumbles upon Merlin and Lancelot...together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ill-Made King

**Author's Note:**

> I own neither the BBC nor any of the characters found herein. Alas.
> 
> I do not have a beta. All mistakes are unapologetically my own.
> 
> Set sometime between Season 3 and 4, but there shouldn't be any real spoilers. 
> 
> The title, and some mild inspiration, is derived from T.H. White's "The Once and Future King," which I highly recommend to any who have not read it. The quote in the summary is from Oscar Wilde's "The Portrait of Dorian Gray."
> 
> Enjoy

           All was quiet in Camelot. Night had fallen, the round face of the moon watched from its celestial perch as peasant and lord alike slumbered beneath a canopy of stars. In some distant wood an owl hooted to an audience of silent stillness. The market, which in but a few short hours would stir and fill to the brim with bustling commerce, for now laid dormant, peaceful in its repose. Doors were latched, windows shuttered, candles, long extinguished, grew cold to the touch. Nothing but the wind moved along the cobblestone roads that wound their way up towards the citadel. Vast and empty, the courtyard offered its barren breast to the heavens; in the distance the sound of guards’ feet softly padding along beaten paths filtered in through open arches and alcoves. Far off in the stables a horse gave a somnambulistic whinny. Within the walls of the castle a hushed tranquility reigned; the temporal crown had been set aside to rest, only to be taken up by Somnus, surveyor of this nocturnal kingdom. In sumptuous beds, wrapped in silken linens, knights dreamt of glory, while servants, in trappings far less fair, wandered freely in fantasies of wealth and prosperity. Like a lover the night had taken each of them into her embrace and laid them down all to sleep. Save but one.

            From his window Prince Arthur watched the drowsy world languish in its reveries. He had not changed for bed, dressed still in the tunic he had donned this morning. There was little point in preparing for sleep, which would not find him, if it did at all, until the early rays of day began to creep up the stone walls to spill out onto his chamber floor. Then, if he were fortuitous, he’d be blessed with a respite, lasting a mere handful of hours, before the onus of sovereignty, and a certain dark-haired servant, came to rouse him.

            So it had been for the past few months, ever since Uther had taken ill and the full brunt of governance had come to bear upon Arthur’s shoulders. A lifetime of preparation, of careful grooming, meticulous training, had of course prepared him for this inevitable responsibility, but one is always too young to bury one’s father, to helplessly look on as the shadow we grew up in withers before our eyes. What Arthur would give to have the King restored to his former self, to be able, just once more, to confide in the man who raised him, to seek his council, to be, even for the briefest of moment, a boy once more, safe within the hands of paternal love. Gwen assured Arthur of his father’s convalescence, smiled sweetly as her soft hand patted his own, telling him that Uther grew stronger every day, that before they knew he would be back on his feet. Arthur would always thank her for her kindness, for her duty, kissing her on the forehead as one would a child who lies to conceal a deeper hurt. But the truth is like the sun—though clouds may mask it momentarily, it cannot stay hidden forever.

            And thus Arthur began roaming the castle while the rest of its occupants slumbered peacefully in their beds. He could not long support the barren starkness of his chamber walls, the constricted proximity of stone, too similar to the dread, empty confines of the sepulcher that haunted his waking dreams. At times he would make his way to his father’s room, would press his door open with the tender care of a mother ruffling her child’s hair; Arthur feared waking him—Uther was want to stir at the slightest noise and was a terror to put back to bed, mumbling incoherently in fear, or worse, crying out for Ygraine, long dead. But the sight of him, once so strong, now gaunt-cheeked, sickly pallor clinging to his skin, troubled Arthur more than his father’s presence comforted him. He never could suffer it for long. When his eyes had drunk their fill of his father’s weathered countenance—or on the nights when the Prince could not bear to look upon him at all—Arthur would lose himself within the maze of hallways and stairwells littered about the citadel.

            Not a soul stirred, save the rare guard on patrol, and the silence was becoming to his melancholic wanderings. The scuff of worn leather against cold stone lulled him till all thought ceased. In these nightly traipses Arthur felt free; he was no longer a Prince, no more a son, hardly even a body. He was motion and movement, mindless, at least for a few precious hours. He had no destination in mind, not truly. He knew, as any sensible captain should, the rounds each guard was ordered on, was familiar with the paths the chainmail-clad men took as they wound their way through the citadels’ corridors, could time, to the second, when Roland or Bartum would cross by the great hall, when Jentham or Gregory would take up position outside the armory. This knowledge served him well in his pursuit of solitude. The first few times Arthur had taken to nocturnal roamings, mindlessly placing one shod foot before the other, the persistent encounters with concerned guards ( _‘Sire, is anything the matter? Why are you up at this hour?’)_ had quickly taught him to select his course with more attention and care. So thought he still ambled the endless passages, a certain unconscious introspection guided him to those couloirs he knew would be deserted.

            Which is why, as Arthur drifted aimlessly late one evening, the soft sound of footfalls stilled him where he stood. Virgo, long in the sky, had drifted across the atramentous canvas of night and the witching hour was nigh—it was well past the time for an honest conscious to have gone to bed. Arthur, roused to his senses, swung his eyes over the curve of the walls around him, took in the tapestries hung on rusted hooks, as he tried to place where he was. He found himself in a seldom used wing of the citadel, reserved for guests and dignitaries when they could not be accommodated in the nominal rooms set aside for them. The winter, though now retreating before the tepid army of spring, had been long and harsh, snow piled three feet high on the roads to and from the kingdom; visits had been scarce and the doors that lined the darkened hallway wore a thin cloak of dust, hinges, which once shone like copper broaches, now dulled, had rusted with disuse. Even the most errant of guards could not have arrived here without purposefully straying from his appointed path. Besides, the padded steps echoing off the stone were not the militarized, near mechanical march of a trained guardsman, the swish of cloth so dissimilar from the song of rattling armor. Head cocked to the side Arthur strained to listen, crouched down, knees bent up against his chest, as if he were not in the castle at all but was in fact in the woods, as if it were day and not blackest night, as if he were tracking a deer and not some interloper attempting to (poorly) mask their intrusion. Fingers wrapped round the hilt of the dagger dangling from his waist, Arthur crept forward, lifting his heel with each inhale, setting it back down only as a silent stream of air flew past parted lips. Step by step he inched closer to the corner, hugging the wall; a chill had worked into the stone and as his tunic brushed against it he shivered. As he neared the edge he steeled himself, preparing to plunge over the precipice—he took a breath, held it, as he ever so slowly leaned his head out into the adjoining couloir.

            A lesser man would have gasped. Despite all his training and reserve Arthur still nearly did. But how else could he respond to the site of Merlin, bathed in squares of moonlight falling through a grated window? The crosshatched shadow that sprawled across his face looked painted on, some lunar tattoo; the patches of his skin caught in the ethereal light shone like polished pearl. The violent red of his kerchief, tied about his neck, was at the same time muted and made transplendent by the milky glow it bathed in. His hair was the void of endless night, a dark halo atop an angelic mask, the thin strands brushing his forehead mere tendrils of dusk. But his eyes, his eyes were storm clouds, thick and umbrous, which held all the oceans of the world within them. The sight of him, all angles and shade, was almost enough to make Arthur forget that his servant was out sneaking through the castle like a thief in the middle of the night.

_Almost_.

            Arthur was no stranger to Merlin’s questionable behavior. One could not spend long in the other man’s company without coming to realize that beneath his nonchalance lurked a puzzling enigma, hidden in a mass of gangly limbs and toothy grins. When not attending to Arthur, or lushing at the tavern, Merlin possessed an uncanny ability to vanish for odd stretches of time, always under some thin pretext. Or else he materialized out from nowhere just as Arthur would begin to realize the gravity of whatever misfortune he had stumbled into. Truth be told there was value in Merlin’s sudden apparitions (though Arthur would be loath to admit it to the man himself), but the Prince could not help but wonder just what his servant got up to when he wandered off alone. So, naturally, seeing himself presented with the opportunity to finally sate his curiosity, Arthur seized upon it in earnest.

            As he watched, Merlin stalked the deserted corridor with the grace of a newborn doe; hours upon hours spent tracking game through the woods with Arthur had taught him a handful of skills in stealth, but it was a small hand indeed. Though he stepped gingerly on his front foot he never seemed to manage to fully break free from the floor’s embrace with his back heel; it let out a shuffling whisper as Merlin dragged it forward. He eyed the doors before him with an alchemist’s acumen, as if at any moment one of them would burst into emerald flames. His tongue darted across his lips as he grasped a heavy, iron handle. A cacophony of reluctant, shrieking metal sprang forth as Merlin twisted and pushed; his gaze desperately flew up and down the length of the hall, and Arthur ducked his head back around the corner in time, but only just. Then there was the soft thud of wood against wood as the door swung against the frame, but the latch was mute; Merlin, fearing he would only make another vociferous clamor, must have left it ajar.

            With huntsman’s ease Arthur glided round the corner towards the door, swift and silent as a swan on water. A meager gap, no more than two knuckles width, had been left between the door and the frame. Inside the room, pitch coated, there throbbed dark intensity; no candles had been lit, the windows poorly positioned to catch the falling moonlight. Arthur could barely discern the black mass of Merlin’s silhouette as he moved forward boldly into the obscurity, vanishing a little more with each step. He saw it happen, not as it actually did, but slowed down, as if the figures before him moved through honey. From out the darkness came a hand, then an arm, which wound round Merlin’s waist with a python’s finesse. With a sharp tug the unseen assailant pulled him from Arthur’s rectangle of vision. The Prince’s hand was on his dagger, shoulder braced to force his way forwards, when a noise from inside stilled him. It was a name, plaintive, all breath, tumbling out of Merlin’s mouth like a prayer offered up to the night.

            “Lancelot…”

            Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. Ear pressed against the smooth grain of the wood he strained to pierce the muffled silence. As he shut his eyes a garden of sounds began to bloom; tulip-sighs, lavender-moans, the clothes-rustling of baby’s breathe. Somewhere from within a mattress groaned out a protest as two bodies sagged atop it. The noises, though more distant, grew louder, desperate, _pleading_.

            “Oh god, Lancelot.” Unseen forms shifted against each other, frictive skin sliding across flesh slick with sweat. Arthur knew he must be imagining the hitch in Merlin’s heavy breath, but how could he be certain? Blood pounded threw the veins in his head, he had to brace himself against the wall to stop his vertigous swaying. His throat constricted painfully, and had his mouth not gone bone dry he’d be afraid he’d choke on his own saliva. An itch squatted on the roof of his pallet; he ran his tongue obsessively across it.

            “Open your mouth. I want you to taste it.” Lancelot, his knight, good, true, noble Sir Lancelot—how could Arthur ever have imagined the deep timbre of his command? Try as me might he could not help but picture Merlin scurrying to obey; there were suddenly the wet sounds of suction overlaid with Lancelot’s monosyllabic moans. The bed, knocking against the wall, beat out a rhythm to match Arthur’s pulse, which raced in time with the frantic _snap_ of Lancelot’s hips. To think, poor Merlin, distended mouth open wide, overflowing with drool, the taste slamming against the back of his throat as Lancelot, as he—

            “ _Oh mon Dieu_ ,” Lancelot whispered, then groaned. Arthur could hear bodies rearranging themselves on the bed, rustling sheets, heaving breaths, and finally stillness. His eyes fluttered open, unaware that he had even shut them, as he drew in a shaking gasp. His legs wobbled beneath his weight, knees practically knocking. As he made to push away from the wall a low, contented hum trickled up to his ears.

            “I missed you.” Merlin’s muffled voice dripped with languid affection; Arthur tried, and failed, to ignore the question of where exactly his servant’s face was nuzzled.

            “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, but what with the patrols Arthur has—” Merlin shushed him with a hushed rush of air—did he, Arthur wondered, grace Lancelot’s lips with a single, silencing finger as well?

            “I don’t want to talk about him…please.” They stirred with a swish of satin sheets. For a long moment neither of them spoke, and Arthur hoped against hope they had fallen asleep, that the spell was broken, that he could walk away free.

            “Tell me about her.” What was that he heard in Lancelot’s voice, that tremulous want, such need seeking only indulgence? When he answered, Merlin’s voice was hoarse, the barest ghost of a whisper; he pressed his body into the door, listening.

            “What do you want to hear?”

            Lancelot hummed quietly as he thought. “Tell me about her hair.”

            “I saw her in the kitchen today, getting the King’s breakfast. She’d gotten flour in her hair. Not matted or disheveled looking, like the cooks. Just a dusting, like someone had sprinkled stars in it.” Merlin recited his lines absentmindedly, mechanically, as if he had rehearsed them many times before.

            Arthur heard the grin in his voice when Lancelot next spoke. “And her eyes? What about her eyes?”

            “They’re like…obsidian rings, round and deep and dark. Except when she’s in the sunlight—then they shine like black suns.”

            “Have you ever tasted her lips?” An eager lacquer coated the knight’s words.

            “What? No, I…I mean, she kissed me once, but it was—”

            “Could you do it again? Kiss her, I mean? So I could know what it was like.” There was a keen edge of desire slicing through everything Lancelot said. Merlin remained silent; Arthur thought he heard fabric being twisted by anxious fingers. “Please, Merlin…for me?” There came then the sound of kissing, gentle at first, then quickened with frantic passion. Arthur staggered away from the open door as if wounded.

            He waited until he was three hallways away before he broke out into a desperate run. His footfalls sounded like damnation as they echoed off the cold, stone walls. When he finally found his way back to his chambers he wrenched the door open hard enough to strain a muscle in his shoulder; it throbbed with ache, the least of the Prince’s hurt. Once inside he shut it with such force the hinges rattled and a vase wobbled threateningly on a nearby table. He was on his knees by his bed, arm searching out the chamber pot hidden underneath. And acrid stench of himself assailed his nostrils as he bent over double. His mouth hung open like a broken trunk as he was sick into the brass pot before him. He’d barely touched dinner, had in fact hardly eaten since breakfast, so all that spilled forth was a thin string of caustic bile. For many minutes Arthur knelt on the floor, spitting out wad after wad of harsh, rancorous malice, attempting to empty himself to little avail—one cannot vomit disgust and despair. When at last he rose to his feet, mouth foul with the sharp taste of inexplicable jealousy, a wave of fatigue crashed over him, and he collapsed onto his bed. As sleep took him and unconsciousness slowly faded the reality before his eyes, Arthur could not help but think that the wind blowing against his bedroom window sounded terribly like Merlin’s hitched breath cascading against his neck.

+++

            The court was all assembled by the time Sir Lancelot entered. Arthur hated to admit how resplendent he was in his polished mail, red cloak gracing his shoulders; of few of the maids (and one or two squires) drank him in as he strolled past, coming to kneel before the Prince where he sat enthroned. Lancelot smiled humbly as Arthur told him to rise, watched him as his eyes darted past his head; Gwen (and Merlin) stood back beside the throne, ensconced among various knights and ministers. Deep, purple bags sagged beneath Lancelot’s eyes, same as those that clung to the flesh beneath Arthur’s sockets. Neither of them had slept much the night before.

            Arthur estimated he’d been asleep for a scant few hours before the familiar rap of knuckles on wood, the _pat pat pat_ of worn leather boots, the curtain rings singing out as they’re pulled back, the cruel sunlight dashing across his face woke him.

            “Rise and shine, lazy daisy!” Merlin cajoled in a jovial tune. There was a decided bounce in his step as he traipsed about the room, tidying this stack of papers or that pile of unlaundered clothes. Arthur slugged upright, caught the chamber pot in the corner of his eye, pushed it gingerly beneath the bed with his heel. Breakfast was laid out on the table and Arthur made his way over, slumping low in his seat. “Well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Merlin laughed to himself as he cut the smoked meat the kitchens had prepared for the Prince’s meal. Arthur didn’t respond, was too preoccupied with Merlin’s kerchief, tied unusually tight round his neck. In his mind’s eye Arthur saw the circle of sore, bruised flesh hidden underneath, saw the lips against pale skin drawing the blood just below the surface, could heard him, see him, feel—

            “Send word for the court to gather as soon as I’ve finished eating.”

            “Of course, Sire.”

            “And tell Lancelot I request an audience with him.” Though Merlin did not look up from the cup he was filling a tremor ran down his arm, rattling the jug. A drop slid down the side of the cool metal to pool in a knot of wood.

            “As you wish, Sire.”

            When Merlin had left, Arthur hovered his thumb over the tiny droplets of water soaking slowly into the grain of the table. With a fell swoop he wiped them away, drying his finger on his britches.

            Now Lancelot stood before him, wide-stanced, arms clasped obediently behind his back. What ease with which he carried himself, what confidence, the kind only a man who believes himself right and just could possible possess. Or else a man in love, so foolishly in love, that anything can be justified in its name. Arthur envied him and hated it.

            “You requested my presence Sire?”

            “You are familiar with the town of Calast, are you not?”

            “My uncle had a farm not far from there. I used to spend summers helping him in the fields. Why, my Lord?”

            “I’ve received word of a bandit encampment in the woods on the outskirts of the town. I want you to look into it.” A murmur erupted among those assembled, but Arthur hushed them with a scanning glance. He did not look behind him.

            “Of course my Lord. I shall gather some men and—”

            “You shall travel alone.” The silence that followed spoke louder than the murmurs. Arthur did not look away from Lancelot’s face, blank and searching. “A contingent of Camelot knights will draw far too much attention. You are not to engage the outlaws, simply investigate and report back to me. You are Camelot’s best knight—no one else is better suited to handle, and overcome, the inherent danger of this quest.” For a moment Lancelot seemed to hesitate, seemed on the verge of disobedience, a recalcitrant shadow falling across his brow. But only for a moment.

            “As you wish, my Lord. I shall leave as soon as I’ve gathered all that I’ll need.”

            “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing your horse and essentials already. You can leave at once.” On his way to the royal audience chambers Arthur had passed an idling stable boy flirting with a kitchen maid. Not one to let opportunity slip away, he’d ordered them to prepare a mount for Lancelot and to gather food and supplies for eight days, time enough for Lancelot to make it to Calast, find no bandits in sight, and return home empty-handed. At the thought of his absence Arthur felt he could take a breath for the first time since last night, since he heard—

            “I shall not fail you, my Lord, you have my word.” Lancelot bowed low, cloak sweeping the floor behind him as he turned on his heel, retreating out of the spacious audience chamber. Arthur stood as he departed and dismissed the gathered advisers. From out the corner of his eye he saw Merlin step forward, as if to follow Lancelot.

            “Merlin.” His servant paused hesitantly, twisting his neck to look back at Arthur. He did his best to ignore the pained shimmer in his eyes, which threatened to spill forth in rivulets. “I need you to go prepare my armor for the afternoon’s training with the knights.” Merlin darted a gaze to the oaken doors through which councilmen egressed. “Now.” He obeyed, full of dejected defeat. Arthur waited as the last wrinkled head vanished from the room, till there was only Gwen left standing beside him, hand on his arm. Her fingers felt cold and distant through the fabric of his tunic.

            “Do not worry Arthur; Lancelot is strong and brave, and he has the trust of his Prince. He’ll be fine.” Her voice was soft and reassuring as she affectionately rubbed at his tense muscles. Arthur nodded, playing at the worry Gwen believed she saw on his face, but did not speak. After a while she excused herself, claiming Uther’s bath needed preparing. She left, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. And then Arthur was all alone.

+++

            Things did not go as Arthur had expected them to. Though, truthfully, he’d had no real expectations to speak of. What had he thought would happen when he sent Lancelot away? Did he hope to undo what he had overheard, somehow erase, not just the memory, but the very act itself from ever having happened? Doubts began to creep along the knots of Arthur’s spine as he lay awake late into the night, they seemed deaf to his incessant reassurances. _But you must protect Gwen’s honor_ , he told himself over and over again until he could almost believe it.

            Almost.

            How had he never noticed how quiet the citadel was without Merlin’s constant banter? The silence was nigh maddening, punctuated by the scrape of a whetstone or the jangle of armor being polished, his servant slumped despondently in a corner, morose sorrow spread taunt across his face. Arthur tried, really _tried_ , to cheer him up and once more rouse his good spirits, but nothing, neither jests nor jibes, threats or hurled crockery could force a smile to crack on Merlin’s face.

            “I’m just sad, Arthur,” Merlin confessed after he’d been subjected to a prolonged series of poorly executed jokes, “it has nothing to do with you.” Arthur coughed to cover the twinge in his gut. Would he tell him, he wondered, if he asked him? _I love Lancelot, Lancelot, Lancelot_. Arthur ordered him from the room and threw himself on his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, willing his body to fall through the cracks.

            That was how Gwen found him a few hours later, muscles stiff from disuse, eyes painfully dry. He felt the bed sink beneath her weight as she sat beside him, legs tucked up beneath her. She placed a hand on his chest, fingers kneading.

            “Oh, Arthur…are you thinking about Lancelot?” He did not respond, but turned to look up at her. Merlin’s poetry came back to him and he tried to see her as he did, as Lancelot wished to. But there were no gemstones in her eyes; they were soft, yes, and kind, but dull brown, not precious stone. Spring had rolled in over the mountains and fields, warm and humid; her hair frizzed out atop her brow where it had slipped free from the tight braid on the back of her hair, each strand lusterless black. She was pretty, some would say beautiful, but then why, why—

            “Let me help you forget.” Her fingers crawled to the hem of his britches, twisting themselves in the laces as she gently tugged them free. He did not help her, did not lift his hips as she worked his trousers down his thighs. The bed groaned as Gwen hitched her dress, swinging a leg over Arthur’s lap to straddle him. She bent forward, lips ghosting his ear in a whisper. “I’m not wearing any smalls.” Despite himself Arthur perked at her words, blood rushing south as his cock half-heartedly hardened. Her skirts pillowed out around them in a violet halo, covering Arthur’s waist and hips. Her hands worked beneath the frills, stroking, supple and warm, and his body responded obsequiously. She smiled at him, feline, cheeks plump, teeth brilliant. He stared back up at the ceiling. Her grip was surprisingly strong as she positioned him, rising up on her knees to adjust before slipping down. Wet warmth enveloped him; his cock twitched as his face flushed scarlet. She began to ease herself up and down, rocking her hips in a languid rhythm. A rosy pallor tinted her cheeks as her breasts heaved against the suddenly constricting bind of her bodice. Arthur let his hands rest limply on her thighs, her waist, her chest, before finally letting them flop back down by his sides. Gwen, eyes shut in rapture, seemed not to notice. She braced herself against his chest as her pace quickened, slick heat sliding along Arthur’s cock. His name cascaded from her lips in breathy moans, quiet at first, then louder and louder till she almost shouted. So naturally neither of them could hear the latch pop open as the door swung inwards.

            “Sire, I was—” Merlin’s words tripped in his throat, tumbling out as a startled mumble of nonsensical syllables. Gwen let out a modest shriek, stumbling off of Arthur, legs shaking beneath her as she stood beside the bed, smoothing down the wrinkles of her dress with anxious hands. Arthur barely moved an inch, cock erect and glistening, the tip an angry red, only lifted his head to look at his servant.

            “Merlin?” His servant’s eyes snapped up from where they had drifted down. He licked his lips nervously and nodded, too dumbstruck for speech. “Please fetch my supper.” He backed out with a bow, gaze never straying from him. Gwen blew air out through pursed lips as soon as the door was shut.

            “Goodness that was embarrassing, not that being with you is embarrassing, Arthur, of course not, but I mean for Merlin to—” As she spoke, Arthur shifted round to sit on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor. The frame creaked in relief as he stood, hiking up his trousers around his waist, tying them in a loose knot. He clasped Gwen’s shoulder’s gently to cut her off midsentence.

            “I have some reports I should read over. I’m sure you understand.” Of course she didn’t, her round face blank, but she blinked and forced a smile.

            “Of course. I have some laundering that needs seeing to anyway.” She rose on the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek.

            Once she had left Arthur collapsed into the chair before his desk, elbows nestled among reams of paper, and buried his face in his hands. He had not moved by the time Merlin returned laden with a tray of food. There was a spring in his step despite the load, and Arthur could hear the grin in his voice as he announced supper. He glanced up to see him setting down the silver platter on the bare table, caught the twinkle in his eye as Merlin turned, hand hidden behind his back. _What gesture_ , Arthur mused, _has he conjured up to mock me now_? But his smile was kind and genuine, very nearly affectionate, and it alit his blood with fire.

            “What do you have there?” Merlin’s laugh was like the first thaw after a bitter winter, warm and long-awaited—it stirred something deep in Arthur’s gut and he could feel the apples of his cheeks swell as he beamed back at him.

            “They came in this morning,” he said, producing a rich bowl of strawberries from behind his back, “first batch of the season.” They were piled high like tiny, red mountains, fat and succulent, freckled with pale seeds. Merlin extended his arm, offering them to Arthur, while his gaze devoured the fruit greedily. “Well go on,” he encouraged with a gentle jostle of the bowl, “try one.” Arthur pinched a leafy stem between thumb and forefinger, lifting a heavy berry from the bowl, which Merlin set down as he turned to leave.

            “You can have one too, if you like.” The radiance on Merlin’s face shone bright as sunrise as it spread by degrees. It stared round his eyes, the skin on the periphery crinkling as his cheeks grew fat, two long rows of teeth revealed beneath parting lips. Swiftly, as if fearing Arthur would change his mind or else reveal his offer to be nothing more than a cruel joke, Merlin snatched at a strawberry, hungrily stuffing half of it into his mouth. As he chewed a grimace shadowed his face, his brow furrowed, and he dropped the uneaten half back into the bowl.

            “ _Blegh_ , oh god, it’s sour,” Merlin’s mouth hung open in exaggerated disgust, tongue lulled out as he wiped the back of his hand across it in an attempt to sooth his offended pallet. He continued to gag dramatically as he collected the tunics scattered about the chamber which needed mending and the armor wanting polish. By the time he had gathered everything he was practically dry heaving as he toed the door shut behind him, sounds gradually fading down the hall.

            Arthur eyed the discarded ruby crescent enthroned atop the others. Dropping the one he held, he lifted the berry delicately to his mouth, pressed it against his lips like blessed unction. He mimicked the shape of Merlin’s bite, ghosted his tongue against the curve his teeth has carved out. He shut his eyes in rapt devotion as he devoured it, relishing the taste of it, of _him_.

            It was so sweet it burned.

+++

            Arthur nearly abandoned his plan three times before it was actually finished. Geoffroy, curiously puzzled, wondered the reasons behind Arthur’s request, but had of course given the Prince the vellum and quill he asked for without so much as a raised eyebrow. Perspiration pooled in his palms as he climbed the stairs back to his chambers, where he tucked the parchment into a desk drawer, nestled between the wood lining and a gorged inkwell. There they stayed for several days, untouched, thought every time he sat behind his bureau he pulled the little handle forward to inspect the instruments of his own damnation.  When at last Arthur brought himself to spread the lithe leather on the table, smoothing it out with his hands, he sat paralyzed for what seemed like hours. The blank, white void stared back at him tauntingly, holy and vile in its unmarred purity. His spine was rigid straight against the back of the chair, every muscled seized and tense. When he lifted the quill the shaft snapped from the force of his grip. Perhaps it was a sign, a divine incentive, a warning of vengeful retribution soon coming to bear down upon him. For the briefest of moments Arthur considered, instead of the purpose he had originally intended for it, of using the vellum to scratch a note to Lancelot, to send a messenger on Camelot’s quickest steed, to call his most faithful knight home from his errant, futile quest, to fall before him on bended knee, to weep and beg his forgiveness, to expiate the sin of his exile. But instead Arthur stalked back down to the royal library and asked for another quill.

            As it came time to actually put ink to paper, Arthur felt hopelessly lost. He tried reading over the numerous reports Lancelot had made over the years, but the voice was not unique, not his own, just the trite, mechanical recitation of a well-trained knight. He had Geoffroy send up volume after volume of romantic poetry, but the verses overflowed with bouquets of idealized imagery; it all seemed so terribly false. In the end Arthur opted for succinct simplicity— _Merlin, meet me tonight. You know where, L_ —and prayed it would suffice. Signing Lancelot’s name was out of the question, least of all because the ornate initial had taken over an hour to perfect. But the thought of forging Lancelot’s signature chilled Arthur’s soul; he could steal his body, but not his name. He lied and told himself that this was noble, that this kindness somehow made what he planned to do less reprehensible.

            When the note was finally finished, rolled into a tight cylinder, tied with a knot, Arthur puzzled many laborious moments over _how_ exactly to deliver it. How did Lancelot normally indicate to Merlin that this night in particular would hold a rendezvous? In his mind’s eye he poured over the times he saw the two together, but every training session, every hunt or patrol seemed innocuously banal, their exchanges fleeting and innocent. Would the sight of this hastily scratched note arouse suspicion, would Merlin suspect trickery from the outset? Arthur shook his head to clear away his doubts lest he lose his nerve completely. Lancelot had been gone six days already and would, barring any delays, return the day after tomorrow. Had he, immediately upon arriving at Calast and finding neither hide nor hair of the aforementioned bandits, reined his horse round and headed back towards Camelot, he would arrive before nightfall on the morrow. But Arthur knew Lancelot would do no such thing, knew that his faithful knight would not dream of returning unless he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no danger to his Lord’s kingdom. This honor, this strictest adherence to duty, wounded Arthur, but it also afforded him a valuable opportunity. He knew Lancelot would not return for another day and a half—Merlin, he hoped, did not.

            At last, Arthur opted for directness, anxiously confident in his own abilities at mummery and Merlin’s blessed obliviousness. The messenger came early the next morning. Arthur picked absentmindedly at his breakfast while Merlin scuttled about his chambers, hanging up freshly laundered clothes, setting aside a sword that begged for sharpening. In the space between the first and second knock Arthur nearly choked on a morsel of cheese as he ordered Merlin to see who it was. Stuffing the rolled parchment into his hands the messenger informed Merlin him that word had just come in by a rider, and that no instructions had been given save for that this was to be delivered directly to him post haste. As Merlin’s eager fingers worked at the knot, the messenger darted his eyes towards Arthur. He remembered the glint they had held last night when he’d shoved the parchment and a hefty purse of coins into his hands, insuring him that if gold could not guarantee his discretion, a lifetime spent wasting away in the dungeon would. With a quick bow he disappeared.

            “What have you got there?” Arthur asked, tone forced-casual. Merlin, as if remembering where he was, looked up, hurriedly rolling the parchment as a flush rose to his cheeks and, Arthur noticed lovingly, to the tips of his ears.

            “Nothing, just a note from my, um, mother.” His servant’s deceit was clear as still water, but Arthur _hmmed_ believingly. Merlin resumed tidying the room. As Arthur popped a chunk of rye into his mouth Merlin turned towards him, arms gripping a cumbersome shield previously discarded in a corner. “Could I maybe have tonight…off?” Arthur, instead of chewing, let the bread dissolve on his tongue, but could not swallow; his throat was too full of his heart. Normally, Arthur would have refused outright, on principle, or else jestingly berated Merlin that he’d end up in the poor house if he spent any more money at the tavern. Instead he nodded, unquestioningly.

            Arthur spent the rest of the day in a dream, not within his body but rather watching it from without. He swam, unconsciously, through the motions of his daily life, as if everything was happening to someone else and he was but a specter. Gwen, when he passed her in the halls, took his hand soothingly and asked if everything was alright, while Gaius, later, felt his forehead, wondering aloud whether or not the Prince was coming down with something. The knights, for the most past, said nothing, but Arthur caught Leon whispering to Percival behind his hand when they thought he was not looking. When, failing to block one of Gwaine’s sweeping blows, Arthur found himself on his back, helmet dented from the force, he acquiesced to the unanimous suggestion that he spend the rest of the day in bed.

            But the mere notion of bed seemed tortuous, more so when coupled with the insufferable prospect of _waiting_. He tore his room apart in the single-minded drive of distraction; he arranged, then rearranged, the papers on his desk, sorted his tunics chromatically then seasonally, but when he began seriously considering hanging them in alphabetical order he told himself he needed some fresh air.

            The scent of wildflowers danced on the afternoon breeze as Arthur strolled the castle grounds. Off somewhere in the forests children would be crafting daisy chains, pretending at kings and queens with their floral coronations; Arthur envied their innocence, their utter lack of craving for nothing more than the simple joys of play. Somehow in his wanderings Arthur found himself strolling past the western wall of the citadel, far from the clang of metal in the training grounds and the echo of hooves on cobblestone. He gazed up at the shadowed windows hung like portraits, counting, _one, two, three_ , till he stood beneath the sunlight-gilded panes wherein, only a few, short hours hence, he would sell his soul for a glimpse at paradise. As his knees buckled he let himself sink down into the overgrown grass, crushed beneath the weight of his own tempestuous desire.

            He arrived early, just as the sun was beginning to set. An odor of musk mingled with dust, the sheets crumpled in a post-coital tangle; no one had been in to clean. He ripped them off in a bundle, stowing them away in a corner, ignoring the pungent smell of sweat and _other_ that clung to them. In a bureau he found replacements, faded and moth-nibbled, but serviceable. He set to making the bed, darting and dashing from one corner to another every time a fold came undone or a sheet liberated itself with the aid of a poorly angled tug. Perspiration pooled on his forehead at the base of his hairline, unaccustomed to the exertion of such domestic effort. In the end, wiping his palms in the same gesture as he smoothed down a wrinkled, he deemed it passable.

            Though he had skipped dinner (Merlin had never delivered his food, and Arthur, half-wondering why, suddenly remembered the leave he had granted him), he was not tempted to eat; his stomach clenched and unclenched violently at random intervals, and Arthur dared not risk anything heavier than water. Minutes idled by as he prepared the room, the wall gradually set aflame with oranges and reds as the dying sun burst forth from the windows. Enwreathed in ethereal flames Arthur felt hot, the skin beneath his tunic sizzled and pricked with sweat, the clammy moisture seizing at his clothes. His head spun madly around, the floor swirled dangerously beneath his feet, a great terror seized his heart and he thought _run, run away while you still can_! But then the light left the walls, the room grew cool around him, and his hysteria passed. It was dark. Arthur waited.

            At long last he heard footfalls in the hallway, soft as rain. From where he sat, back curled against the wall, Arthur could hear the hesitant shuffle of leather as it whispered against the stone floor. He scrambled to his feet, fishing the silk scarf from out his back pocket. Dyed a deep burgundy it fell through his fingers smooth as decantered wine. Earlier that day he’d snuck into Morgana’s old boudoir—much was as it had always been—and took a scarf hung precariously off of her vanity, stuffing it into his britches before slipping out once more. He pressed against the patch of wall where the door would soon swing and did not breathe as he wound the fabric, tight, round his hands. The weave was expensive, the strands strong and compact like a phalanx; Arthur knew it would not rip or tear. Slowly, ever so slowly, Merlin pushed the door open and stepped into the shadows.

            “Lancel—” His words were swallowed in a gasp as Arthur stepped from behind him and sheathed his eyes with the impromptu blindfold. He worked feverishly, wrapping the scarf, once, twice round, tugging it taut, knotting it tightly, till at last half his face was snuggly concealed. Merlin staggered in his blindness, hands reaching out searchingly as he spun on his heel. “Lancelot, what are you d—” Arthur pressed a single finger to his lips to silence him. Guiding him by the shoulders, Arthur led Merlin to the bed, pressing him down gently to make him sit. A coy, sumptuous smile had crept across Merlin’s mouth, and though he could not see them, Arthur knew there was a mischievous twinkle in the other man’s eyes. Merlin’s hands snaked out to grab Arthur’s tunic and pull him forward as he kicked off his boots. His knees pressed against the mattress as Merlin sat up, neck craning. “Alright, I’ll play along.” And then he kissed him.

_So this is what it feels like to die_ , Arthur thought, because surely life could not feel so _good_. His hands gripped Merlin’s shoulders so hard he worried about leaving long, thin bruises in the shape of fingers. But how could those lips, pressing, entreating against his own, be so chapped when his mouth was so wet, welcoming him in with a shuddered moan? He grasped the nape of Merlin’s neck, held him close, unbearably close yet still far too far away, as he surrendered into their embrace, lips parting to allow in his conquering tongue. The slick muscle writhed about in a wild, frenzied dance as Arthur, short of breath, struggled to keep apace. He was drunk with touch, with choice— _caress his tongue with your own, no bite his lip, oh god, what did you do to make him_ whimper _like that_? Soon, legs weak, Arthur pushed his way onto the bed, knee pressing into Merlin’s groin as he scrambled for purchase on the silken sheets. When Merlin broke the kiss, when his mouth hung open in a slack-jawed groan, Arthur feared he’d hurt him, but his worries were assuaged when Merlin pressed himself against Arthur’s thigh, panting like an animal in heat. Tentatively, he pushed his knee forward, gradually increasing the pressure as Merlin moaned plaintively, need-laden whispers of _yes, oh god Lancelot, please_ thrilling Arthur more than the misnomer upset him. Then Merlin was grabbing him, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down on top of him.

            Every muscle in Arthur’s back spasmed and seized as the complexity of his deception crumbled around him like a sieged city’s withered defenses. How could he have been so simpleminded, how could he have relied so foolishly on sight (or lack thereof) to hide his true identity? His gaze had never languished on Lancelot’s body, but hours spent together in training, on patrols or quests, painted an accurate enough picture of the discrepancies between their physiques. Lancelot, squatter, lacked Arthur broad, barreled chest, his strength laying more in his lower half, in iron thighs and strong hips.  His chin came more to a point than Arthur’s, stubble dotting his bronze skin— _when was the last time Arthur had shaved?_ And though he had never so much as grazed a strand of Lancelot’s hair, how could Merlin ever confuse Arthur’s golden wisps for the knight’s thick, dark mane? Arthur had been doomed before he even began.

            But for all his worry, Merlin did not seem to notice, simply continued to run his nails, like scattered mice, over Arthur’s scalp. His mouth moved sideways and south to kiss along his jaw, incisive canines nipping at his tender flesh. Arthur tried very hard not to breath, not to utter a sound, lest he give himself away completely, but then Merlin began sucking on his neck, tongue and teeth playing across his skin, and despite his best efforts he moaned, quiet and deep. Merlin chuckled, laughter ghosting over the wet patches of his throat, so, in the style of revenge only lovers can enact, Arthur bit, gently, into Merlin’s earlobe, brought the little circle of flesh into his mouth, nibbling on it as delicately as if it were a pastry. Merlin gasped, then sighed, hands trailing down Arthur’s back to twist violently in his tunic, pushing it up to run his eerily cool fingers over the newly revealed expanses of heated flesh. As short nails dug into him, Arthur ran his tongue along the curve of Merlin’s ear, tip dipping in and out of the waxy crevices brave as any adventurer. Speech had all but failed Merlin at this point; his body undulated like a serpent beneath Arthur’s exquisite weight, pressing his chest up against him, as his breath rushed from him in wanton, needy pants. The heat of his clothes felt oppressive; Arthur sat up, resting on his knees, to rip his tunic from off his body. As he pulled it over his head he heard fabric tear, an edge caught somewhere in the darkened tangle. He tossed it aside with little thought, noting that someone would mend it, but paused when he realized that that someone would inevitably be Merlin. Either unaware or unconcerned by his hesitation, Merlin, sensing his motives with an acumen oft bereft in his normally bungled service, worked at his own shirt, arching his back for leverage as he worked it up and over his head, gesturing emphatically for Arthur to help free him.

            Even in the darkness Merlin’s skin shone like moonlight reflected on still water. Arthur ran a finger from his collarbone, down past the pink curve of a nipple, to mount the sharp ascent of a hip bone—all was smooth as polished alabaster, cool as marble. His eyes hungered over the landscape of Merlin’s body—the deep lakes of his base of his neck, the rolling hills of his ribs, the lean valley of stomach, surmounting in pelvic peaks. It was a vast, wholly unknown kingdom, and he longed to conquer it with tongue and teeth. He set about attacking his throat, whimpers and moans ringing in his ears like battle cries, which intensified, louder, almost deafening as he nipped at the thin skin of his shoulder, as he licked and kissed his way down Merlin’s chest. A briny, heady taste flooded his senses till he was drunk on him. When his lips ghosted over a rosebud nipple it pebbled beneath his touch, pert and enticing as a raspberry atop a crème cake. He took it all into his mouth, teeth grazing the areola with more force than he intended; Merlin swore under his breath as he arched up, pressing into Arthur’s mouth as if he could swallow him whole.

            His hands occupied themselves in roaming the gentle curves of Merlin’s arms, his chest, his legs—their edacity was inconsolable, they never lingered for long, wherever they found purchase they just as soon abandoned in favor of new patches of burning, luminous skin. His fingers tangled themselves in the knot futility holding his trousers in place, snug round his waist. Once loosened, he slipped a hand inside to wrap around the radiant heat of Merlin’s cock.

            “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Merlin breathed as he wormed beneath Arthur’s touch, hips jerking madly up, begging for friction, for speed, for _more_. Arthur’s hand jerked haltingly within the tight confines of Merlin’s britches, grabbing and sliding down the shaft, swirling artfully round the pre-cum beaded tip. Merlin’s nails dug deep into the flesh of Arthur’s back, etching long, angry red lines down his smooth, sun-kissed skin. At last, Arthur could resist no more, he moved to grip the pants’ legs, whisking them from Merlin, whose lower half lifted, pivoting in the air, before falling, naked as the dawn, back down onto the bed. Merlin’s cock glistened in the dark, red and wet as a kiss. Arthur crouched between his thighs, hands running along the goose-pimpled flesh, kneading the unanticipated mass of muscles hidden there. Thickets of black, wiry hair sprouted about the base of Merlin’s cock; Arthur nuzzled the hairs, nose buried within the perfumed musk, cheek grazing the heated length beside him. He pulled back to stare down at him, at the proud, red tower erected amongst the niveous planes of Merlin’s body. A strange hesitation overcame him, made his head swim so he had to grip Merlin’s hips to keep from swaying. His throat went suddenly dry, he licked his lips desperately. Arthur knew, in the way that all sad truths are known, unconsciously, inherently, in the deepest parts of the heart, that he would never again be presented with such an opportunity, that this was but an ephemeral, fleeting love. And if he could drink from this pleasure cup but once, he figured he might as well drown in it.

            With the pink tip of his tongue he swiped at the pellucid dewdrop beaded on the head of Merlin’s cock, lapped at the taste, so like ocean spray. With a shuddering moan Merlin interlocked his fingers in Arthur’s hair, twisting and tugging at his golden mane. He feathered kisses all along it, his lips wet and hot enough to scald, to leave scars wherever they landed. Merlin, delirious with want, bucked senselessly, stabbing blindly towards Arthur’s mouth, who, despite himself, smiled at the spectacle as he used his considerable strength to pin down the other man, hands pressing against his hips with enough force to wound.

            “Please,” Merlin begged, “please, just, _please_.” His words, like honey, sweetened with longing, melted Arthur’s already derelict resistance. Mouth open, he descended upon him, swallowing Merlin’s cock in a mawing, balmy embrace.

            At first, Arthur was startled by the enormity of him, filling his mouth, pressing against the back of his throat. As he inexpertly bobbed down his stomach clenched, esophagus tightening reflexively. He drew back, sputtering, a violent cough shaking his larynx as he worried whether he would gag and be sick. A deep crimson spread across his cheeks, shamed at his inability. He made as if to pull away but Merlin cupped his face, tender as a dove, thumb rubbing at the corner of his lips, wiping away a line of dribble.

            “ _Shhh_ ,” he cooed softly, “it’s okay. You don’t have to, if you don’t want.” Something in Arthur’s chest broke and a wave of affection washed over him, warm and insistent. Had he been able, he would have cried, yet still limpid tears clouded his eyes till he blinked them forcefully away. Emboldened, he straightened up, poised himself once more over Merlin’s cock, steeling himself with a slow, measured breath. This time he took in only the tip, lips wrapping round the swollen, red head, tongue lavishing itself around the edges and across the slit. Merlin let out a sound trapped somewhere between a sob and a whimper; a quiver seized the muscles of his inner thighs. Arthur suckled at Merlin’s cock, wet, smacking notes reverberating in the cloistered air. As his mouth adjusted to the curious sensation of fullness he braved a tentative bob of his head. Once more confident he continued the motion, bouncing at a jovial, rapid pace. Merlin moved in time with Arthur, hips rising to meet him, but careful to never press too far, though Arthur could tell such restraint was torturous—his tongue lulled about like a rabid dog’s as his head writhed against the pillows with a nightmarish furry. And then Merlin jerked up sharply, all sense and semblance of control shattered beneath the crushing force of his orgasm.

            “Oh god, oh god, I’m going to, to— _ah ah ah!_ ” A briny taste swam across Arthur’s tongue, a liquid thickness not unlike old yoghurt. He fought against his instinct to spit it out, swallowing instead; he savored the tang of it, the way it clung to the lining of his throat, coating his insides. Coughing, phlegmatic, he eyed the swarthy beauty before him.

            Merlin gulped down mouthfuls of air, his stomach domed bulbously, then caverned, convex and concave, again and again, like a dying fish. His cheeks, flushed scarlet, nearly matched the scarf still snuggly secured round his eyes. With sweaty, shaking fingers he caressed whatever part of Arthur he could touch, jaw or shoulder, arm or hand. His lithe frame trembled as if cold, so Arthur wrapped him in his arms, moving to lay beside him, pressing him close against his chest. For many long moments they lay like this together, Merlin’s breathe steadily evening out as Arthur inhaled the unwashed scent of his raven hair. Eventually Merlin stirred, hand winding down to Arthur’s crotch to linger over the Prince’s persistent erection. He had nearly forgotten his own arousal, blissfully basking in the afterglow, but of course Merlin could not, what with the engorged length pressed snuggly against his thigh.  His fingers were like gossamer, their touch light as snow, moving against him, rising and falling. Arthur fought to suppress a moan, bit his lip so hard a ruby droplet of blood welled up and had to be wiped away. But then Merlin’s hands were gone, moved to Arthur’s chest, nudging him up.

            “I want you, if you’ll let me I’d like…” Merlin asked nervously, unable to express his desire. He licked his lips, the simple gesture speaking volumes. “Please.”

            Arthur moved to sit on his chest, thighs straddled on either side of Merlin’s thin shoulders. He reached up, snatched a pillow, cupped Merlin’s head, lifted it, placing the silk cushion beneath it. Merlin took ahold of Arthur’s cock. A hand gripped his muscled backside, scooted Arthur forward till the tip hovered a hair’s breadth above Merlin’s lips, pink and full.

            A shiver, powerfully electric, ran up from the base of his spine as Merlin’s lips parted, soft as a flower unfolding its petals, and took him into his mouth. He clenched the muscles in his ass, felt Merlin’s hands grip the round globes, gently encouraging him to move, to thrust into the wet cavern of his mouth. Arthur tried, truly tried, to control and pace himself, remembering only too well the fear of such foreignness shoving down his own throat, but he was lost in the waves of Merlin’s tongue washing over his cock, drawing him in, deeper and deeper. It seemed his worries were unfounded though, and that perhaps Merlin was more adapt than he; even when he pounded away with frightful speed, Merlin’s hands stayed cupped encouragingly on his backside. Arms braced beside Merlin’s head, Arthur stared down at himself, consistently rising and falling from his servant’s mouth with a series of slick _pops_. White, frothy foam ringed his lips, speckled his cock from tip to base as he wound up to a frantic speed. Merlin’s tongue no longer moved along his length, lay dormant instead, cushioning the underside, as Arthur continually hit the back of his throat with the precision of a knight’s well-aimed blow. Suddenly, the muscles in Arthurs’ thighs tightened, they pressed against Merlin’s shoulders, squeezing him. His stomached clenched and his heart beat out madness in his chest, _ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom_. As if a bright light had been shone in his eyes his vision faded and blurred. Then he was trembling violently as the force of his orgasm rolled over him like thunder, wracking his frame with tremors of galvanizing pleasure. His mouth hung open, though no words emerged, just desperate, ecstatic gasps as he emptied down Merlin’s pliable throat. Slumped over in a heap his shoulder shook, like a horse whisking away a troublesome fly. Merlin, humming contentedly to himself, did not release the Prince, but rather suckled at his softening cock, like a babe at the teat. When at last, fully flaccid, he fell from Merlin’s lips, the other man licked them with gourmand relish, grinning wide as a cat.

            Arthur was already standing, one leg working its way through his trousers, when he realized what he was doing. He knew, of course, that he could not stay, despite his undeniable yen to bury his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck, to wile away the midnight hours together, to awake with him still wrapped in his arms, but the rapidity with which he moved, silent as the night, grabbing his tunic and fitting it up over his head, surprised him. It was as if some outside force greater than himself compelled him, tugging at his limbs as a puppeteer does at the strings of his marionette. He’d gotten what he came for, stolen pleasure from the gods, who would permit no more indulgences, now the deed was done. Merlin, at last, seemed to sense Arthur’s intentions; he sat up, reaching out for him, fingers trailing the hem of his tunic, tugging him back. There was a pout on his lips, and though it was covered Arthur could imagine concerned furrow in his brow. He knew he should run, should brush Merlin away and do his best to forget this had ever happened. Lancelot would return the day after tomorrow, having found no trace of the bandits. He would resume all his knightly duties, his love for Gwen only strengthened by his brief absence, he would take the only recourse available to him, would travel the well-trod bridge to her heart—he would return to Merlin, who would accept him lovingly, wondering why he’d been so silent the other night, would ask him where he had disappeared to after. Arthur doubted Merlin would ever puzzle out who exactly it had really been, he would suspect, perhaps, but could never prove it had been Arthur who had poured his love like unction over his soul. So he would return to his Knight to coil in his arms while Lancelot dreamt of a woman whom he could never have. Perhaps Merlin would be happy with that, after all. But Arthur had doomed himself from the beginning and now he had the chance to flee, to save what little part of his soul remained intact. Instead, he took Merlin’s face in his hands and kissed him.

            It was soft and brutal and true, as all confession of love are. With lips pressed together tight Arthur told him everything, speaking nothing. He drank deep of him, mouth moving against his own. When they parted he ran, not even caring to shut the door behind him, feet beating against the cold stones. He did not stop till he was out of breath, safely locked away in his chambers. He fled so fast, Merlin did not even realize he was gone till he was halfway through the castle. By the time Merlin came round Arthur had already collapsed into his own bed, so he could not see his servant reach up to undo the knot in the scarf, did not see, as the wine-red fabric fell away, his glistening eyes, full to the brim and threatening to spill forth, could not have heard the name that ascended from his lips, a prayer offered up to the night.

            “Arthur…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story, I do so hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> As an aside, I'll be participating in the After Camlaan Big Bang as a writer. It would be lovely to connect with others participating (either as writers or artists or betas/cheerleaders). I'm just so excited to finally get the chance to see some artwork inspired by my writing!
> 
> I welcome your thoughts, and thank you again, truly, for reading.


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